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Authors: Michael Craft

BOOK: Desert Spring
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Looking from Tanner to Grant, who both expressed disinterest, I told the girl, “Thanks, that's good of you, but I think not. It's getting late.”
She continued loading her tray, which was already heaped high.
“Too late for coffee …,” I thought aloud, strolling toward the bar. Then I turned to Grant. “Maybe a nightcap
is
in order.”
“Of
course
it is.” Grant joined me at the bar and poured a splash of cognac for each of us.
Tanner was standing near the coffee table, which Erin now cleared of a few more glasses. Noticing that her tray was loaded to capacity, Tanner asked, “Can I give you a hand with that?”
“I'll be fine. But thank you, Mr. Griffin.” She squatted, picked up the tray, and hoisted it to shoulder level.
“‘Mr. Griffin'?” repeated Tanner with dismay—he was only three or four years older than the girl. He insisted, “It's Tanner.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, I know, sir.” She offered a quick, weak smile, then turned and crossed toward the kitchen.
Noting this interchange, Grant and I lifted our snifters to hide our grins.
With a confused laugh, Tanner followed Erin, asking, “Have we met? Do we know each other? We must.”
Erin paused, blushing. “I'm sure we haven't met, sir.” Then she scampered to the kitchen and disappeared.
Scratching behind an ear, Tanner called after her, “But you do seem familiar. And, please—don't call me ‘sir.'”
Grant blurted a loud laugh. “Stop flirting, Tanner.” Then, with a disapproving tsk, he told me from the corner of his mouth, “She's
far
too young for Tanner. He must be
twice
her age.”
I gave Grant a dirty look, then downed a slug of my cognac. Tanner returned to the bookcase, where he put away the last of the CDs that were scattered about. “Tanner,” I asked, “can we mix you something? Bar's still open.”
He looked over his shoulder, shook his head. “Better not. Have to drive.”
“Awww,” I whined, setting my snifter on the coffee table as I crossed the room to him, “you don't
have
to, do you? Can't you stay
here
tonight? This has been ‘home.'”
Finishing with the CDs, he turned to me. “Yes, this
has
been home for me. Well, a second home. But I never did completely move in—there wasn't time—and I never did let go of my old apartment. It isn't much, but I've got lots of stuff there, and the movers arrive first thing Monday. I haven't even begun packing, so I need to put in a busy day tomorrow—and I'll
never
get started if I wake up
here
. Sorry.” He pecked my cheek.
“I know.” Hangdog, I stubbed the toe of my shoe against the floor. “But tomorrow night?”
“I'll be here.”
Brightening some, I asked, “And Monday night?”
“I'll be here.”
“Then Tuesday—” The cloud descended.
“Tuesday, it's off to LA.” Tanner tried, but he couldn't quite conceal his eagerness. When it comes to artifice, even an accomplished actor has his limits.
“Ugh,
please
,” I said with a grand sigh. “Don't even
speak
of Tuesday.”
Erin had returned from the kitchen with a bigger tray—a large, oval, silver serving tray—and continued to pick up around the living
room. Though I found her presence intrusive, it beat the alternative, my waking up to the mess in the morning.
Tanner fingered my chin. “I thought that's what you wanted for me—a big break in pictures.”
Peevishly, I acknowledged, “It is, it is.”
“I thought you were proud of me.”
“I am, I am.”
Tanner wrapped me in a loose embrace. “Then it's time for this protégé to fly the nest—and a loving, miraculous nest it has been.”
“I know, kiddo. You'll have to excuse me, but tonight, my emotions are mixed. And uncharacteristically fragile.” I mustered a smile and patted his chest. “I couldn't be happier for you. Really.”
“But … ?”
“But …” Pacing to the center of the room, I flung my arms in frustration and emitted a beastly growl. “Aarghh! I couldn't be happier for
you,
Tanner, but I could just
kill
Spencer Wallace for stealing you from me!”
Laughing, Tanner crossed to me and took me in his arms again.
Erin discreetly retreated to the kitchen.
“Oh, my,” said Grant, swooping toward me from the bar. “Milady is indulging in a bit of melodrama this evening.” Coyly, he added, “Not that I blame you.” Grant stepped to Tanner, studied him for a moment, then languidly slid an arm behind his back, cupping Tanner's sandy-haired head in his palm. “If
I
had known the carnal pleasures of
this
stud-muffin, I'd be out for
blood.
” As if putting a period on his threat, Grant planted a delicate kiss on Tanner's cheek.
“Shucks,” said Tanner, not the least put off by Grant's advance, “I never knew you cared.” Then he slipped away from Grant, crossed the room, and disappeared into a short hall that led to the bedrooms.
With a complacent sigh, I shook my head and sat again on the
leather bench, telling Grant, “Thanks for reminding me how foolish and histrionic I can sound at times.”
“Don't mention it, doll. You've had a lot on your mind lately.”
Tanner returned from the hall carrying a light jacket. “I hate to break up what's left of the party, but I really do need to run. You'll be all right?”
I nodded. “Of course, dear. My nerves may be a bit frayed, but I'll survive. Always have.” Rising, I walked Tanner to the front door.
He put his jacket on, telling me, “I'll call in the morning.”
“Please do. Not too early, though. We could both use some rest.”
With a sharp laugh, Grant interjected, “Just one more reason the boy
dare
not spend the night here. Milady would have him up till
all
hours—playing catch-me-catch-me.”
“Do shut up,” I told Grant without malice. Returning my attentions to Tanner, I said, “At the risk of repeating myself, love, you were superb tonight—and throughout the run.” I straightened the collar of his jacket. “Now, then. Drive with care, get yourself tucked in, and we'll talk tomorrow—whenever you feel like taking a break from your packing.”
Tanner hugged me. “It's a date.”
“A phone date—but I'll take what I can get.”
“Then, tomorrow night, the real thing.”
I growled. “Now,
that's
a date.”
“Night, Claire.” Tanner gave me another quick kiss. “Night, Grant.” Then he opened the door and left the house.
Grant called after him, “Nighty-night, hot stuff.”
“Dormez bien,”
I added, watching him walk to his car. Then I closed the door and stood facing it for a long, silent moment.
Grant asked softly, “Claire?”
I turned. “Hmm?”
“He's such a special young man.”
“With the emphasis on
young
?” I smirked.
“No, no. I mean it.” Grant set his snifter next to mine on the coffee table, then moved to me. “The word sounds so threadbare, but Tanner is ‘special' in every way.”
“
I'll
tell the world.”
“You won't have to, not now. Now that Tanner has been taken under wing by Spencer Wallace,
he'll
tell the world.”
“Better Spencer than anyone else. He's the biggest and best producer in the business. I know that I've left Tanner's career in able hands.” Ambling from the door to the center of the room, I gazed out the glass doors to the terrace, thinking aloud, “I've always prided myself as a practical, objective woman, not given to flights of fancy, thoroughly skeptical of the supernatural. I've never believed in destiny. But I must admit, from the moment when I first saw Tanner act, I understood that it was … well, preordained that the theater world would lose him to Hollywood. I have no doubt of his potential.”
With a big sigh, Grant said, “Our loss, the hoi polloi's gain.”
I turned to him. “Stop your pining. God knows, you've had a fair share of men in your life.”
Matter-of-factly, he acknowledged, “Far too many.” He added, “God knows, you've had men in
your
life, too.”
Dryly, I acknowledged, “Far too few.”
He led me to the coffee table, lifted both of our snifters, and handed me mine. “Come on, doll. Let's commiserate.”
As we sipped the cognac together, Erin reappeared from the kitchen with her silver tray, this time heading out to the terrace, which had not yet been tidied up.
I swirled the heady brown liquor in my glass. “Ah, Grant,” I said, looking into his eyes, “it seems I've known you forever.”
He shared my smile. “But it's been only, what—six or seven months?”
I chuckled at the irony. “Moving out here, I'd never have guessed that my real-estate agent would become my best friend.”
“Odder things have happened. I'm a broker and developer, not a porn star.”
From the corner of my eye, I noticed Erin working her way across the terrace, toward the swimming pool. Her tray was already brimming with glasses and dishes. I laughed at Grant's comment. “A porn star? Don't flatter yourself, dear.”
With mock umbrage, he retorted, “You're a fine one to talk—cradle robber.”
“Shush.” I lifted my glass. “To friendship.”
He lifted his. “To friendship, and love, and … and men like Tanner who leave us weak in the knees.”
“I'll drink to that.” We touched glasses, then sipped.
Just as I was swallowing, Erin, outdoors, let loose with a horrific scream, dropping her metal tray and its load of glassware onto the stone terrace. Grant and I both choked. He managed not to drop his glass, but mine shattered at my feet.
Erin rushed to the sliding doors. “Miss Gray!” Breathless and shaking, she pointed to the far side of the terrace. “Someone's in the pool!”
Confused, I asked deadpan, “Swimming—at this hour?”
“No, Miss Gray. Sinking—facedown.”
Grant and I exchanged a startled look, blinked as Erin's words registered, then rushed out to the terrace together, Grant tearing off his sport coat and tossing it aside. As the pool came into view, we both froze, gasping at the sight of a man in a business suit, a blurry black X beneath the rippling blue light.
Grant took a deep breath and tensed, preparing to dive. Then he paused, exhaled, and stooped to remove his gorgeous Italian loafers, handing them to Erin, who held them daintily with one hand. Grant took another deep breath, backed up a step—
“Mind the broken glass,” I warned him.
—and he leaped into the pool with an awkward splash, adding a good amount of water to the cognac that had already spattered my new silk dress.
Erin joined me at the edge of the pool. We squealed, whimpered, and wrung our hands as Grant stroked his way to the bottom, then struggled to raise the body.
“Grant,”
I called, as if he could hear me, “do be careful!”
Standing next to me, Erin screamed again, a real bloodcurdler—I may have peed my pants.
“It's Spencer!”
she yelped.
Grant was just breaking the surface, gasping and sputtering, struggling to move the body, still facedown, to the steps at the shallow end of the pool. “Ugh. There … Jesus …”
I called, “Are you all right, Grant?”
He turned the body in the water. “Good God, Claire. It's … it's Spencer Wallace.”
“No, it can't be …” With calm urgency, I pointed indoors to the phone on the bar, telling Erin, “Call nine-one-one.”
“Yes, Miss Gray.” Erin dropped Grant's shoes, darted inside, and dialed.
Grant was making a valiant attempt to revive the body. “Come on … come on … ,” he huffed between long breaths.
I heard Erin babbling into the phone: “Yes, I'd like to report an accident at the home of Miss Claire Gray. It's located …”
I asked Grant, “Is he … ?”
Erin was saying, “We're not sure what happened, but it looks like someone drowned.”
“Ugh, damn!” Grant heaved a groan of exhaustion. “Too late. Way too late.”

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